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The president's daughter

Chapter 103: 98
By Nan Britton
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About This Book

A candid personal memoir recounts the author's long relationship with a nationally prominent public figure, the birth and upbringing of their daughter, and the social, familial, and political pressures that resulted. Combining narrative episodes, occasional poems, and frank reflection, the work explains the author’s motive for public disclosure and documents emotional and practical hardships. It closes with a direct appeal for legal protections and social compassion for unwedded mothers and their children, arguing for legislative remedies and greater public understanding to reduce stigma and secure rights for those born outside formal marriage.

98

The papers dated August 1st, which I bought on the morning of the 2nd, caused me to take hope. The headlines were reassuring. “PRESIDENT MUCH BETTER; GIVES PREPARED SPEECH; HIS SECRETARY HANDS TO PRESS HIS ADDRESS HE PREPARED FOR DELIVERY IN SAN FRANCISCO.” That was more like news, I thought joyously. I hurried back to Helen Anderson with the paper. My Italian friend met me on the way. I translated into French as best I could the good news. Helen Anderson had explained to the people at the boarding house the evening before that I had come from the President’s home town and had known him from childhood. My Italian friend smiled broadly. Now would I go to the theatre with him that evening? he asked. Yes, I said, I would go.

I felt as though I ought to be gay. Mr. Harding would want me to. Maybe my prayers were of avail, after all, and I breathed another prayer, this time one of thankfulness. I went to school that day. I laughed with the others at the funny mistakes we all made. I could have shouted all the day long, so relieved did I feel, and so thankful.

That evening my friend called for me and we dined together, and drank more wine than usual, and afterwards laughed with sheer joy at strange French comedy which I did not at all understand. We sat in a box. My friend was most agreeable; his face reminded one of some of the heroic bronze faces on plaques. He called me “Ninon,” which he informed me was French for Nan. I giggled to myself when I reflected how funny it would really be to marry a man who knew but two or three words in my language. Yet when I thought about it I decided this very fact might prove an important factor in making him desirable for my peculiar marriage purposes. But he was, after all, a very likable man, and some girl might marry him for love of him alone. On our walk home after the theatre, he proposed marriage to me again, for the severalth time, and, as he bent to kiss my hand, I said to myself audibly in English, “It would be a crime when he seems so genuinely fond of me.” He looked up at me pleadingly. “S’il vous plaît, Ninon, parlez en français!” I smiled softly and shook my head. “Je vous a dit, simplement, ‘vous êtes un bon ami.’”